Retribution
by Wilusa
Summary: My latest attempt at a plausible scenario for Justin's revival, that will be reconcilable with newly established canon while including some ideas of my own.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.

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_**Note added 12/9/06:**_ For a _full_, clear picture of my latest take on Ben's killing of Justin and the events of the next day, I'd advise reading "Dead of Night," "Choices," "Proof of Life," "Retribution," and "Ghost of a Chance," in that order.

_**Note added 12/23/07:**_ I should, however, explain that "Dead of Night," "Proof of Life," and "Ghost of a Chance" are in the "Look, even something as unlikely as this isn't irreconcilable with known canon!" category of fan fiction. "Choices" and "Retribution," on the other hand, reflect my actual speculation about the direction the story probably would have taken. One detail in "Retribution" has been rendered AU by later-established canon; for the correct canon, see my more recent fanfic "Trinity."

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_It was all a dream!_

How could Justin Crowe think otherwise, when he woke in his own bed, clad in his familiar pajamas, with blessed sunlight streaming through the windows?

He closed his eyes. _Thank God._

He hadn't ripped his cassock open on the Ferris wheel, letting Iris - and ultimately, everyone - see his tattoo.

Hadn't restored his strength by the shockingly public means of killing a half-dozen or so New Canaanites, in front of scores of others.

Hadn't brutally disemboweled Norman. _Norman, of all people!_ He cringed at the very thought of that.

Most important, he hadn't taken his eyes off the boy called Ben in a moment of hubris ("My Kingdom come!")...hadn't given his wounded enemy a chance to thrust a blade into his one vulnerable spot...hadn't ended his life as an ignominious failure.

He sighed in relief.

And with that deep breath, he felt a stabbing pain - _excruciating_ pain - in the center of his chest.

His eyes flew open. _Oh my God. No. __**Noooo!**_

He struggled up to a sitting position, despite the pain that took his breath away and brought stinging tears to his eyes. With shaking fingers, he unbuttoned his pajama top.

No bandage, no open wound. But in the fork of his tree tattoo, where the branches met, there was a dark, ugly knot of new scar tissue.

He let out a howl of rage and despair.

He heard movement - shuffling of feet, perhaps - outside his closed bedroom door. But no one came in.

_Am I being held prisoner?_ he thought frantically._ Am I __**locked**__ in?_

_No. Don't panic. If the carnies had taken me prisoner, they wouldn't have brought me here._

He sat still for a few minutes, forcing himself to take breaths that were regular but not deep. The pain gradually subsided.

When it had ceased altogether, he tried the experiment of getting out of bed. He was weak and wobbly, his heart pounding. But he succeeded in tottering over to his dresser. He had to lean heavily on it for a minute or two; then he let go, and slowly straightened.

The stabbing pain, it seemed, was only triggered by an especially deep breath or a sudden movement. But as he gazed at himself in the mirror, he both felt and saw the new scar throb.

His thoughts were a jumble. At one and the same time, he was humiliated - devastated! - by his failure in the last moments of battle, _and_ appalled by the things he'd done "successfully" leading up to that point. _How can that be?_

_And how can I still be alive? I lost the fight, through my own error. Why didn't the boy finish me off?_

He made himself focus on that question.

_His blade was broken. Maybe the piece he grabbed was too short to penetrate deeply enough to kill me._

_Or...he was badly wounded. Maybe the blade was long enough, but he didn't have the strength to drive it far enough in._

Then he thought of another possibility, so stunning that he gasped - and had to clutch the dresser again for support.

_Maybe, while he was trying to drive the blade in, he __**died!**_

_If that's what happened, I actually "won." But I didn't deserve to win._

He knew he'd never feel like a winner. And he suspected the Power he served (whatever Power that was) would never treat him like one.

A sudden fear compelled him to pick at the scar. Just enough to draw one drop of blood...

His blood was red.

_No, no, __**noooo!**_

So he'd been stripped of his Prophethood as punishment for his failure. He was sure no other Dark Avatar had _become_ Prophet - there was no other Dark Avatar, or he would have sensed him - but he had lost some of his power. Whether or not the boy Ben was dead, he'd have a harder time winning over humanity.

_Winning them over...to what end? I'm not sure. Was I ever sure?_

_Prophet or not, I am the Usher! When the time demands it, I __**will**__ understand what's required of me. _

_This punishment may be temporary_, he told himself_. _And then, with a haughty lift of his head, _**Of course**__ it's going to be temporary!_

But the phrase that flashed through his mind was "whistling in the dark."

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There was a soft knock on the door.

"Who is it?" He managed to keep his voice steady, though it wasn't as strong as he would have liked. As he spoke, he rebuttoned his pajama top.

"It's Sofie, Brother Justin."

His gasp of shock brought another wave of pain. Sofie? She was supposed to be dead!

_Maybe I'm not really awake. Or not alive..._

He made himself say, "Just a minute, Sofie." Looking around, he saw his robe draped conveniently over a chair. He struggled into it, then turned to face the door. "Come in."

It opened to reveal a bedraggled young woman in a soiled, torn dress. The same one she'd had on yesterday, he recalled, but much the worse for wear. She stood in the doorway, with downcast eyes, and said meekly, "I remembered to knock this time."

Taking his cue from her, he said, "I'm sorry I made an issue of that. Come in!"

She entered, and closed the door behind her. Her movements were still tentative - fearful? When she looked up at him, he thought he saw unshed tears in her eyes.

"B-Brother Justin," she said in a shaky voice, "I th-think you may not realize what h-happened to me yesterday. Brother Varlyn...he roughed me up, then _tied_ me up, and locked me in a shed. He left me there for hours. I managed to get free of my bonds, but I couldn't get out of the shed. It was dark when he came back, and I slipped out the door before he could find a light. But I saw he had a gun. He meant to kill me!"

"That's appalling! I never told him to do such a thing," Justin lied. Thinking quickly, he remembered she hadn't heard even his earlier orders to Stroud.

"I confess I did ask him to keep you under guard. I was afraid the carnival folk would abduct you before I had another chance to urge you to stay with us. But I certainly didn't intend that he mistreat you in any way - even by leaving you alone in a locked shed." Shaking his head, he continued sorrowfully, "Brother Varlyn comes from an unfortunate background. Perhaps that caused him to misunderstand what I wanted. I should have been more explicit.

"But why are you here now, my dear? I'm pleased that you are. But you'd turned against me, and that experience with Brother Varlyn can hardly have changed your mind."

Sofie hung her head again. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible. "During the night, I went back to the carnival. But Samson and the others wouldn't _take_ me back. I'd been with that carnival since I was six - it was the only home I ever knew. I thought they were my family. But they condemned me out of hand because I'd left them for you!" She choked back a sob.

"I'm so sorry, my dear," he said gently. He risked walking over to her and stroking her hair, and she didn't pull away.

She looked up at him; her cheeks were tear-stained now. "Am I still welcome here?"

"Of course you are." _At least something's going well. Though I've never understood why I care about her - probably just because she __**isn't**__ attracted to me as a man, and that presents a challenge._

_But how did I get back here? Where's Iris? And what's become of the boy Ben?_

To his surprise, Sofie said, "I was the one who found you in the cornfield this morning, and realized you were alive."

"Oh!" He wasn't sure how to respond to that. After a beat, he said, "Then I'm in your debt, for seeing to it that I _stayed_ alive. I suppose you had the Knights of Jericho carry me back to the house?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand what happened last night, Sofie?" _I'm not sure I do._

"I think so," she said slowly. "Ben picked a fight because he believed you'd killed his father." Before he could deny it, she surprised him again. "I won't ask whether you did or didn't. I don't give a damn. Not after the way his friends treated _me_.

"In any case, I know there was more involved. A test of his supernatural powers against yours. And you _are_ still alive."

He felt a thrill of hope. "Is Ben not alive?" Confused though he was, he knew he wanted his adversary dead.

But Sofie said with a shrug, "I don't know. He may be dead by now. But when a bunch of carnies carried him out of the cornfield this morning, it looked like they were being careful to put pressure on a wound."

"Alive, then." _The boy has an Avatar's strong constitution. If he survived the night, he's likely to pull through._

_But is he maimed for life?_

_Am I?_

"The corn is dead," Sofie said abruptly.

"Wh-what?"

"Dead," she repeated. "The corn, all of it. The cornfield is completely flattened." She continued thoughtfully, "Maybe, even while you and Ben were unconscious, you were both somehow drawing on the corn, taking life from it to begin healing your wounds."

"Y-yes," he agreed uncertainly. "I think that's possible." _And the boy had a much larger open wound, so it makes sense that it wouldn't have closed completely, when mine did._

_But..._

"Sofie," he asked, "what became of the dagger blade Ben had driven into my chest? Did you pull it out?"

She shook her head. "No! The only weapon near you was a bloody scythe. From where it had fallen, I figured it was yours. So I brought it back here, cleaned it, and put it in your closet. I never saw a dagger - your wound had already closed when I found you."

"I can't believe the blade is still inside me," he mused. "I suppose it may have just...disappeared."

_But what if it didn't? If it worked its way out of the healing wound, and Sofie didn't see it, could the carnies have taken it with them? An anointed blade, that could be used to attack me again..._

To distract himself from that unnerving thought, he asked, "Have you seen my sister today? I'm afraid Iris was badly frightened by something that happened at the carnival last night."

"You mean the epileptic seizure you suffered on the Ferris wheel?" Sofie looked up at him with a hint of a smile, and he realized she was deliberately suggesting a cover story. "Miss Iris seems to be all right. She's been very quiet all day, though. Perhaps she's...offering prayers of gratitude...for your being so hard to kill."

He sensed a hidden meaning. _Is she telling me_ _Iris isn't a threat? That she must have realized I was fighting a supernatural enemy, and concluded that if someone like that couldn't kill me, __**she**__ doesn't stand a chance?_

_No, I'm imagining things. Sofie can't understand __**that**__ much! That Iris had turned against me..._

But she understood a great deal. And he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

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Sofie left a few minutes later, after assuring him that the Knights of Jericho were troubled but still loyal.

"It seems there was no one around to give them orders," she'd told him, "so they did nothing. That's why the carnies were able to find Ben this morning, and then just drive away.

"All hell broke out last night, I hear, when some of your flock misunderstood what happened on the Ferris wheel - Miss Iris screaming and all - and thought there'd already been an attempt on your life. There was rioting, and a few people wound up dead. Including Reverend Balthus! Then there were actually claims that _you_ killed them.

"But I've been setting folks straight. The police, and everyone else who'll listen." Here she'd looked him in the eye, speaking slowly and distinctly. "I know carnies. They were loyal to Ben and wanted to help him. So they drugged the carnivalgoers. The drugs could've been in soda pop, candy - most anything. No one can be sure about what they saw, or imagined they saw, last night."

Now that she was gone, he wasn't sure whether he was grateful for the cover-up she'd set in motion, or resentful that she hadn't waited and let _him_ think of something. _On balance, I suppose I should be grateful. Time was of the essence._

Moving slowly and carefully - but not without frequent twinges of pain - he washed up, shaved, and dressed in a clean cassock. He was glad his room had a connecting bath, and he wouldn't have to venture into the hall before he looked like his usual self. But he found himself wondering who had _un_dressed him, and gotten him into pajamas. It was unsettling to think of anyone's having done that while he was unconscious and vulnerable.

_Forget it_, he told himself sternly. _Before I meet other people, I have to get my story straight._

_The boy Ben may be too badly maimed, or too cowed by my having survived, to pose a threat to me again. So for now, at least, I won't magnify his importance by denouncing him as a servant of the Devil. I can "discover" his abominable nature later, if need be._

_For now, I'll just say he was a phony healer - using bribed "plants" - who hoped to make a name for himself, and steal my followers. His friends were drugging carnivalgoers so they'd be easily influenced, and accept any "miracles" he performed. _

_But just before I reached the healing tent, he'd gotten himself into a sticky situation. There were demands he heal __**Norman**__, which he obviously couldn't do. Then I burst in. All I wanted was to catch up with Samson, and demand he fire the carny who'd refused to stop the Ferris wheel. But Ben thought I'd come to denounce him. He fled. And some one of his cronies fatally slashed Norman - I'll say that in the general confusion, I couldn't see who did it - in the hope the distraction would keep me from pursuing Ben._

_It had the opposite effect. I could see at a glance that Norman was dead, and I was furious. He'd been like a father to me! So I did chase Ben, when otherwise I would have let him go. I caught up with him in the cornfield. He lunged at me with what looked like a military-issue dagger, and I had to grab a gardening tool and slash him, in self-defense. But by the grace of God, I survived with no injuries - I think I passed out because I was still suffering aftereffects of the seizure I'd had on the Ferris wheel. And I don't believe I could have hurt the boy badly. I hope he too will give thanks to God, and mend his ways._

Yes, he decided, that would do. Sofie's idea of blaming what people had seen on hallucinogenic drugs was inspired. With Norman - and, of course, Wilfred Talbot Smith - gone, the only New Canaanites who knew he possessed supernatural powers, without giving credence to anything they'd seen at the carnival, were Iris, Stroud, Leroy and Earl, and Sofie. All of them were either loyal or intimidated.

_I may even be able to convince Iris I didn't kill Norman._

Then he thought about the meaning of those words. _"Kill Norman." __**My God!**_

_I __**still**__ can't believe I did such a thing!_

But Sofie, he realized, had been completely unfazed.

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He'd been out of bed less than an hour, and was already so fatigued that he wanted to lie down again. But he knew he mustn't give in to his weakness. He flung the door open and strode out into the hall - only to ruin the effect when he had to stop, and lean against the wall to steady himself.

Leroy and Earl, who'd been sitting on the floor, scrambled to their feet. Leroy asked in a scared voice, "Are you all right, Brother Justin?"

"Yes!" he said impatiently. "What's going on? Why are you here?"

"There's other guards outside the house," Earl assured him. "Sofie told the two of us to stay near you, case you needed somethin'."

_**Sofie?**__ She's still giving the orders?_

"There's been cops an' reporters around," Leroy said nervously. "Sofie told them you was, uh, indisposed, but you wouldn't be able to explain much more about last night than the rest of us could. Miss Iris neither - she was pretty upset.

"Everyone agreed you took ill on the Ferris wheel, Miss Iris's carryin' on made people think you'd been shot or somethin', an' that's how the riots got started."

"Some folks in the camp have talked about _you_ doin' bad things," Earl chimed in. "Even killin' people. But it's just wild rumors - no one's been tracked down who claims to have seen it. I think we convinced the cops that anyone who really believes they seen stuff like that must o' been drugged."

Justin suddenly remembered - with a shudder - that _Earl_ had seen him kill Norman. And Earl, of course, knew he hadn't been at the carnival long enough to have ingested any drugs. _I wonder if he told Leroy? At least they both seem to be in my corner now._

Leroy said uneasily, "Them cops want to talk to you, though."

"Yes, yes, of course. Are they still downstairs?"

The two guards looked at each other. Then Earl said, "I dunno," as Leroy mumbled, "I ain't sure."

Justin was fuming as he hurried down the stairs. He was glad Sofie had taken charge, since the only alternative seemed to be the disloyal Iris. But where in blazes had _Stroud_ slunk off to?

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He heard voices coming from the parlor, and realized the police were still there. _It probably is best to get this over with._

But as he reached the doorway, he was wracked by another spasm of pain. It was a jolting reminder of everything that was so horribly wrong: his enemy alive and possibly still in possession of an anointed blade; his Prophethood lost; his health a question mark; the whereabouts of his "Archangel" an almost equally disturbing question mark. _And last but not least, the man who really __**was**__ like a father to me dead by my hand._

He pulled himself together and went into the parlor, where two uniformed police officers quickly got to their feet to greet him. A white-faced Iris, seated on the sofa, shrank away from him; fortunately, neither of the cops was looking her way. Sofie stood in a corner, taking it all in.

"Glad you're feeling well enough to be up and about, Brother Justin," the older cop said politely. "I'm Sergeant Myers, Mintern police, and my partner here is Officer Cullen."

"Pleased to meet you, Sergeant. I'm grateful that you responded so quickly in our time of need." Justin knew he wasn't projecting his usual self-assurance; but under the circumstances, his being nervous was understandable.

"You look pretty shaky, Reverend. You'd better sit down."

"Yes...yes, you're right." He claimed the chair Cullen had been sitting in, rather than risk approaching Iris. When the cops sat again, Cullen perched on an arm of the sofa.

Then Myers made a face. "Actually, we weren't _called_ as quickly as we would have liked."

"My fault," Iris said in a strangled voice. Wringing her hands in her lap, she continued, "There are seventeen thousand people in New Canaan, but they're living in tents and shanties. Only this house has a phone, and I was in shock.

"But we didn't realize anyone had died till hours after the carnival left! There was rioting last night, then our people fled the carnival grounds. I was worried about my brother, but I didn't think he was in serious trouble. And after the incident on the Ferris wheel and the riots, I was too upset to realize Reverend Balthus was missing. Our staffers only found the dead bodies when they were cleaning up the mess the carnival left behind."

Justin had a hunch she'd said all this before, and was repeating it for his benefit. Myers' bored-sounding _Yes, yes_ seemed to confirm that.

"Don't blame my sister for anything," he said mournfully. "This whole tragedy was my fault. If I'd known how it would affect me, I never would have gotten on the Ferris wheel. My having that seizure - my first ever, I do have that excuse - was what led to the rioting, and to what happened in the healing tent." He went on to pour out his whole planned story, "nobly" taking responsibility for having been the indirect cause of all the carnage.

By the time he finished, both officers were nodding sympathetically.

He asked the obvious question of them: "Are you investigating the carnival?" He hoped they weren't. They'd probably take the word of a respected preacher, with a national following, over that of some ragtag carnies; but at this point, he wasn't sure of anything.

_The entire troupe has probably been told I murdered Ben's father. That's a charge he can't possibly prove, but I'd still prefer it not be publicized._

_And what if he were to demonstrate to the police that he really does have a miraculous power to heal the sick? That might go a long way toward convincing them he's a Creature of Light, and I must be his opposite..._

Myers grunted. "That's why I wish we'd been called in sooner. By the time we started looking, there were three carnivals, on different roads, close enough to have come from New Canaan! None of them would admit having been here, having a dwarf manager or a faith healer, or ever having used the name 'Carnivale.' And none of them was toting a dismantled Ferris wheel.

"At least one outfit was lying, of course. They must have done a quick paint job on anything that had the name 'Carnivale' on it, and abandoned their Ferris wheel. In fact, they all look like such two-bit operations that it's possible the one that was here split into three, to confuse us. But with the fly-by-night way carnivals come in and out of existence, it would be hard to prove." He cleared his throat. "In any case, no one's accusing you of having done any serious harm to their 'healer.' And _you're_ saying you couldn't identify the person who killed Reverend Balthus?"

"That's right," Justin said, in a voice he hoped was suitably laced with regret.

"There are no other reliable witnesses to that, or to anything else that may have happened." Myers sighed. "Seventeen thousand people, of whom maybe three hundred, max, would have been attending the carnival at the time - that's about all it could have handled. And we can't identify them. We can't trust anyone who says they were there, because we've already caught publicity-seekers lying about it.

"So...I'm sorry, Reverend, but it seems there isn't much we can do."

"I understand, Sergeant." A relieved Justin only now realized he'd been sweating. He got to his feet with a weary smile, hoping the officers would take the hint and leave.

Sure enough, they rose (though Iris sat motionless as a statue). But as the men were shaking hands, Stroud ambled into the room.

Startled at seeing him, Justin exclaimed, "Brother Varlyn!"

Stroud ignored him, wandered over to a window, and stood gazing out of it.

"Brother Varlyn!" Now Justin was angry. "Look at me!"

There was no response from his brutish deputy - though everyone _else_ was looking at him.

Justin felt the blood rising in his face. "Brother Varlyn! I need to talk to you about...about your conduct last night. And your conduct right now. But not in front of guests. Get out of here, and wait for me on the porch!"

While he was speaking, Stroud turned to face him, yawned - without covering his mouth - and strolled over to flop in the chair Myers had just vacated.

Iris screamed.

And Stroud disappeared. Into thin air.

Justin dropped back into his own chair, aware he was shaking like a leaf. "Wh-what?"

Sergeant Myers said awkwardly, "Uh, Brother Justin...I don't know who you think you've been talking to, but no one's come into the room. Whoever this Varlyn is, he's not here."

"He's dead!" Iris burst out. "Varlyn is dead!"

Leroy and Earl came racing into the parlor - then stopped, looking confused. "Sure he's dead, Miss Iris," Earl said reasonably. "Why are you screamin' about it? You've known he's dead for hours."

"Justin was talking to him!" she wailed. "As if he was here!"

"He was here," Justin whispered. "He _was!_"

Sofie emerged from her corner. "Officers, this isn't a police matter. Everyone here has been under a strain - surely you can understand that? We can handle it."

"All right, ma'am." Myers sounded eager to leave. "Come on, Charlie."

They practically bolted out the door.

_My God_, Justin thought, _what will they be saying about me?_ But that was the least of his worries. _Can Stroud really be dead? Why would Earl have said it if he isn't?_

_Dead or not, why did I see him when no one else did?_

He half-heard Sofie suggest that Iris go to her room. His sister didn't have to be urged; moments later, she was clattering up the stairs.

And then, with Leroy and Earl still hovering, Sofie was on her knees beside Justin's chair. "I'm so sorry, Brother Justin. With everything else that had to be explained, I forgot I hadn't told you Brother Varlyn was dead."

He stared blankly at her, at a loss for words.

"Remember," she said, "I told you he had a gun and meant to kill me? You made some comments, then asked a question. I got sidetracked, and never got back to what I'd meant to say next.

"I slipped out of the shed, but Brother Varlyn heard me and came after me.

I grabbed something - a log intended for firewood, I think - and clobbered him with it. I was only able to knock him down because I caught him off balance. His head hit the wooden floor of the porch, and that knocked him out. So I took his car keys and escaped.

"I didn't realize he was badly hurt, but his skull must have been fractured. When he hadn't come back by noon, I went looking for him with a few of the Knights - I was sure that when he learned I'd been helping you, he'd drop the idea of killing me. But he was still lying where I'd left him...dead.

"Believe me, I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

"B-but...I saw him," Justin insisted through chattering teeth. "I _saw him_, just now, here in the parlor..."

"You've been under a lot of stress," she said soothingly. "And you probably wanted to see him because you were concerned about him. That's my fault, for not having told you what happened. Don't worry!"

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_I've had visions before_, Justin reminded himself. _Elaborate visions! Outside Chin's...on the bridge...even in the middle of a sermon, when I "saw" the boy Ben leap onstage and actually believed he'd stabbed me. So this is nothing new. It's part and parcel of being an Avatar._

_But...none of those visions included dead people._ He couldn't suppress a shudder. _There's a difference between having "visions" and seeing ghosts!_

_Well, I may have seen ghosts once. I saw two of the murdered children in the ruins of the Dignity Ministry..._

_No, be honest. They weren't ghosts. I realized later that I'd been hallucinating, because I was half-crazed with grief over the children's deaths. I __**didn't know**__ Stroud was dead!_

So this was indeed something new. New and terrifying.

"Brother Justin?" Sofie was saying. "Does that sound like a good idea?"

"What - oh, I'm sorry, Sofie. What did you say?"

"I think one reason you're not yourself is that you haven't eaten in about twenty-four hours! I'm going to have the cook start preparing a proper meal. But that will take a while, so how about my making you a sandwich now?"

He wasn't hungry, didn't have the faintest desire to eat...and that was unusual for him. _But she may be right in believing I __**should**__ eat. Perhaps I'll feel better after I do._ So he said, "Yes, Sofie, thank you. That may be just what I need."

She turned to head for the kitchen - and he suddenly panicked at the thought of being left in the room where he'd seen the ghost. Before she'd taken a step, he blurted out, "I'll come with you."

He, Leroy, and Earl all trailed her into the kitchen.

Leroy made a strained, unnatural attempt at small talk with Sofie.

But Justin stood transfixed...staring at the man who was already sitting at the table. A timid little weasel of a man, whose eyes darted to left and right as he tried to lift a teacup and saucer with shaking hands. The cup appeared to be knocking repeatedly against the saucer, but for some reason there was no sound...

Until Justin screamed.

Sofie spun around, wide-eyed; the guards unheroically backed away.

"What's wrong, Brother Justin?" Sofie was at his side in an instant, looking stunned, but anxious to help.

He pointed a quivering finger at the table. "T-Talbot Smith!" The occultist was still there, still struggling to get the teacup up to his mouth. He was visibly frightened, yet oblivious to the group that had come into the room.

Sofie turned to look at the table. "You're seeing someone else who - who isn't there?"

Justin moaned.

"Talbot Smith," Sofie repeated. "He was that man who visited you a while back, right?" She frowned. "But he can't be a ghost. He didn't die, did he? I remember you saying he'd left, gone back to wherever he came from -"

"He died!"

"Oh." She needed a second to absorb that. Then she asked calmly, "Did you kill him?"

"No!"

But as he denied it, the ghost finally looked up. Directly into his eyes.

"I didn't kill him," Justin insisted. "I ordered him not to go to the place where he was killed!"

The ghost was still staring at him.

"But...but..." He broke down, and the truth came out. "I knew he was going anyway. I could have stopped him, and I didn't. I actually _wanted_ him to go."

_Yes. I knew the greedy wretch would infuriate Scudder to the point where Scudder would break free of his restraints and kill him. I didn't give a damn about Smith. I just wanted something to drive Scudder to break free. For my plan to work, he had to believe he had a good chance to escape._

_I was sure that because Smith had gone to the shed on foot - trying to keep what he was doing from me - Scudder would hang around till someone else showed up with a vehicle he could steal. And I'd be lying in wait in the back seat, so I could take him __by surprise and receive a boon._

The dead occultist's eyes were still boring into him.

"Yes, yes," he screamed, "I admit I was responsible for your death, damn it! Why won't you disappear now, like Stroud did?"

"Please, Brother Justin," Sofie pleaded, "try to calm down."

But he pulled away from her and retreated into the corridor. "Stroud," he babbled. "I took a chance with _his_ life, too..."

_He didn't know I was hiding in that back seat, any more than Scudder did. I let him go into the shed without a word of warning. I thought Scudder probably wouldn't kill anyone but Smith unless he had to. And I was right. But I willingly accepted the risk that if I was wrong, Stroud would die._

_Stroud wasn't bright enough to realize that, in life. But does he realize it now? Is that why __**he's**__ come back to haunt me?_

Fleeing the kitchen, he found he'd blundered into the dreaded parlor - with Sofie and the two guards at his heels, all urging him to sit down and rest. Thankfully, there was no sign of Stroud. And he undoubtedly did need to rest: he'd been experiencing chest pain since the first ghost appeared, and by now, he felt as if he was being stabbed again with every breath he took.

So he sank down on the sofa, and tried to relax. _Damn it, this is humiliating._ He realized his screams had been heard outside the house. One of the guards who'd been posted outside was peering in, his face inches from the window.

A pale face. Gray hair. A _blue_ scar ringing the neck...

Justin leapt to his feet. _"Scudder!"_

This time, a man he truly had killed with his own hands. Killed for his "boon"...for knowledge that had caused the killer such unease that he tried not to think about it.

_The man could be driven to violence, but at heart, he hated it. He didn't want anything to do with the conflict that I'd been told was so important...that I'd been told justified my killing him._

_All he cared about was his son. He wasn't a brave man, but he'd put his life at risk to protect that son._

_I had a father who tried to kill me. What I learned about Scudder suggested that Avatars don't have to be like that. His "boon" made me question everything I thought I knew._

_But now..._

_In life, Scudder hated violence. But he loved his son.__** And **__**now he knows I hurt his son!**_

"Brother Justin! What are you raving about?" Sofie was clasping his face in both her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Please believe me, this 'Scudder' person isn't here!"

He didn't know how much he'd said aloud. But now he managed to stand quietly, clinging to her and gasping, until he gradually felt calmer and his breath came more easily. Then he risked another look out the window.

"He's gone," he said unsteadily. "Now. But I really did see him."

"Scudder," Sofie murmured. "Was that Ben's father?"

"Yes." _And I suppose that answers the question you didn't ask. He wouldn't be coming back to prey on me if I hadn't killed him._

"You need to rest," she insisted. "Please, lie down on the sofa and close your eyes for a few minutes! I'll be right here, Leroy and Earl too."

"All right." He was exhausted. _And at least, with my eyes closed, I won't see ghosts._

x

x

x

He didn't sleep, but after a few minutes' rest, he felt better. Ashamed of his weakness.

"Sofie? Are you still there?"

"Yes, of course. Can I get you something? A glass of warm milk, maybe?"

He gave a shaky laugh. "Actually, I think I'll stop babying myself. Get up and have that sandwich." Opening his eyes, he rolled over and sat up.

Sofie was sitting on a hassock beside the sofa.

Leroy and Earl occupied the room's two chairs.

And nearest the window, in his wheelchair, sat a pajama-clad Norman Balthus.

Justin's shrieks were only silenced when he finally, mercifully, passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

As Sofie prepared for bed that night - across the hall from Justin, in case he needed her - she congratulated herself on a day well spent. _This was much, much better than killing him!_

Ironically, the only reason she hadn't killed him was that Ben had beaten her to it.

It was, in truth, Clayton Jones who'd "clobbered" Stroud. (Lies came easily to Sofie.) The newly empowered Sofie had shot Jonesy with Stroud's gun, rather than waste time arguing with him. She'd driven back to New Canaan with every intention of murdering the man she now knew was her hated, rapist father.

But frightened New Canaanites - still milling about, late at night - had told her about the wild goings-on at the carnival. No two accounts were identical, but there was general agreement that Justin had last been seen either entering or leaving the largest tent, in pursuit of a "healer" called Benjamin St. John. Later, there had been a terrifying display of lightning, which climaxed when it struck and consumed the landmark tree on the hill.

Until then, Sofie hadn't had a clue as to whether Ben and the later-arrived carnival had gotten together. Since Ben believed Justin had killed his father, and he hadn't come to New Canaan to save _her_ from Justin, it was a safe guess that he'd come to try to assassinate him. It was an equally safe guess that Samson and company hadn't shown up by coincidence. What was less clear was whether they'd come to help Ben, or stop him.

The Benjamin St. John story had given her the answer to that question, and many more. With her new understanding that she and Justin were, for want of a better term, Beings of Power, she could see that Ben was one too, albeit of a different kind. All the signs were there. He'd been performing real healings in that tent - and Justin's misadventure on the Ferris wheel told her _why_ he'd been doing it. He and Justin had fought. And whether or not Ben had survived, Justin had undoubtedly met the same fate as the tree that was his symbol.

_Ben did me a favor_, she reflected as she slipped into her nightie. _Though I didn't appreciate it at the time._

Her first reaction had been fury at being cheated out of her revenge. But with her intended victim already lying dead somewhere, she had to slow down and think. She'd been given time to attune herself to her newly discovered inner nature...to absorb more knowledge of that nature...and finally, to weigh her options regarding Justin in light of what she'd learned.

She could choose to do nothing. Leave him dead. He had, after all, died an utter failure. He'd spend eternity in Hell, not as the honored lord he should have been, but shamed and disgraced.

She could bring him back to life (at the cost of killing someone else, she'd realized with a shrug) in order to have the satisfaction of killing him herself. His lot in Hell after that humiliation would be even worse.

Or she could bring him back to life and let him stay alive.

Was there any conceivable reason why she should do that?

Oh, yes. Much as she hated him, there was.

The most significant truth she'd discovered about herself was that _she possessed power_. She didn't have to be a victim all her life. Didn't have to be persecuted or patronized, held prisoner or protected.

She possessed power. And with every passing hour, she craved more.

The exercise of power in bringing Justin back to life would be a thrill in itself. But beyond that, she sensed that if he was alive only by her sufferance, she'd be able - in time - to establish herself as dominant. To control him, and through him, his legions of followers. Why go to the bother of building a movement from scratch when she could manipulate an existing one from behind the scenes, and at some point, inherit it?

She had no idea what she'd do with "legions of followers," or a "movement." That was irrelevant. Power was a goal in itself.

_But even so_, she thought now, _I might not have brought him back if I hadn't foreseen what would happen later._ She snickered. _I really should send a thank-you note to Ben!_

All her inner self had been able to tell her was that she could restore a dead person to life by killing someone else. In the end, she'd reached out with her mind and killed Stroud - who really had been incapacitated by a fractured skull, but only died in the instant before Justin came back to life. (Before she "found" Stroud's body in the company of those Knights, she'd driven out to the shed alone to hide Jonesy's. A dead Clayton Jones couldn't have been explained as anything but a carny who'd tried to rescue her, and that wouldn't have jibed with her claim that her former "family" had spurned her. But there had been no sign of Jonesy, living or dead: she'd concluded that she hadn't killed him, and he'd been able to walk away.)

The formula was simple. Kill one person, revive another. But while she was debating whether to do it, she'd remembered snippets of carnival gossip, and another tidbit she knew to be fact. For the first time, she saw how the pieces fit together.

For weeks after the fire that had claimed her mother (who'd started it in an attempt to kill _her_), she'd been too distracted by her own life crisis to pay attention to anything else. But she'd eventually heard that at the time of the fire, Ruthie had been desperately ill as the result of a snakebite. Gabriel had supposedly told people that Ben had helped nurse her through it. Other gossip held that Ben and Ruthie had been an "item" at the time, though the relationship had later cooled.

A strange coincidence: Lodz had disappeared on the night of the fire - which was also the night Ruthie's fever broke. From the beginning, there were rumors that Ben had killed him. Lodz had taken a peculiar interest in Ben (the least prurient theory being that he thought the youth had latent psychic ability, and wanted to help him develop it). Whatever his motives, Ben had regarded his "interest" as harassment. Lodz and Ruthie were enemies, if only because of that. And for all the months Ben had been with Carnivale before Lodz's disappearance, he'd owned only one ratty shirt, borrowing others when it was being washed. That infamous shirt had "disappeared" on the same night as Lodz...and the rumor mill attributed its disappearance to bloodstains.

When Sofie looked back on that now, the truth was crystal clear. Ruthie had _died_, and Ben had killed Lodz to restore her to life. He'd taken care to choose someone whose absence wouldn't trouble Ruthie any more than it would him.

But there was more to the story - more, probably, than Ben himself knew. Ruthie had told Sofie that for months after her supposed brush with death (she undoubtedly hadn't realized it was more than that), she'd had an unwanted ability to see ghosts!

Sofie was still smiling as she closed and locked her bedroom door. (She might go to Justin - to coddle and comfort him. But not for sex, never for sex. And she'd vowed never to allow _him_ in _her_ room.)

_That was bad enough for Ruthie. Just as I expected, it's ten times worse for Justin, because he's being plagued by the ghosts of men he killed. _

_One day of it, and he's already a basket case. By the time the ghost-viewing wears off, his sanity may be past saving. An excellent revenge!_

_And of course, the poor thing is going to find himself hopelessly dependent on __**me**__._

She was about ready for bed. But there was one last thing to be done, here in the privacy of her room. She'd been putting it off, letting the anticipation build.

She reached under her mattress, and pulled out the carefully wrapped blade of Ben's dagger. A handy thing to have, since a day would surely come when she'd want to rid herself of Justin! But at the moment, she had a non-lethal use for it.

To prick the tip of one of her fingers.

When she licked the drop of blood away, she found that blue blood tasted exactly the same as red.

x

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x

The End


End file.
